The Boys' Club

by Wendy Squires

  'Well, I did overhear her describing the lead character she wants actress Lisa McCune to play as a butch lesbian with a heart of gold,' Portia continued.

  'Tell me you're kidding, Portia – please!' Rosie felt as though she was about to choke.

  'Er, sorry, I wish I could.'

  Rosie's head suddenly felt heavy and she rested it in her hands on the desk. 'I can't believe this,' she snuffled. Alicia's turning Australia's sweetheart into a bulldyke!

  'I need your help here, Portia,' Rosie said, raising her head. 'We need to get through to Alicia that Big Keith does not understand lesbians, that the network is not sympathetic to our Sapphic sisters, and that seven-thirty is not the time working-class Australians want to sit down and explain rug-munching to their kids!'

  'I'll do my best, Rosie, I promise, but in reality, isn't that Simon Nash's job?'

  Portia had a point. What was Nash doing letting a drama get this far along if it featured a national treasure as a lesbian lead?

  'You're right,' Rosie replied. 'I'll get Lisa to organise a meeting with Nash, Johnno, Keith, Alicia, you and me first thing next week. In the meantime, can you try to find out what else she has planned? I mean, bless her, but Alicia's pretty damn out there. We'll need to rein her in fairly quickly before the press get wind that we're panicking. A lesbian lead! Can you imagine Keith? He'll spontaneously combust, I swear.'

  'Will do,' Portia said with a chuckle, before adopting a more serious demeanour. 'I'll call her now . . . but before I do, can I ask you, Rosie, is there any bad blood between us? You don't seem to include me in discussions any more and . . .'

  Rosie looked up at her 2IC and decided she had no choice. It was time to show her cards. 'Portia, things are crazy around here at the moment as you well know. Management is so angry with the leaks in this place that as of today they're no longer allowing me to attend the daily meetings, so I don't have a lot to tell you. As you know, I have my hands full with Graham Hunt and right now I just need you to back me up. I need to trust you. Can I do that?'

  Portia looked devastated. Rosie was sure she saw tears welling in her huge Kewpie-doll blue eyes and suddenly felt awful for being so blunt, but there was more.

  'Portia,' she said, 'I know you've been getting in early every day and you now make a habit of having breakfast with Johnno, Simon and the boys. I also know you had your heart set on my job and working for me can't be easy. But I am here and I'm sorry about that for you. This is probably the most fractious time in this network's history and everyone is looking at publicity to save the day. I'm under siege from above and all sides and just can't handle the thought that knives are coming from below as well.'

  Rosie watched as Portia lost it, her tears turning to full-blown sobs and then heaving retches as she tried to reply. All Rosie could make out was, 'You don't know the whole story.'

  'Portia, lovely, come on,' Rosie said, now rocking the hysterical young woman in her arms. 'Maybe you should tell me so I can understand what's happening with you.'

  'I can't,' Portia wailed. 'It's a mess. I'm so sorry. You don't want to know.'

  Rosie did want to know, but it would have to wait, as Simon Nash was at her door. The smarmy bastard was grinning.

  'Yes, Simon, I think you can see this is not a good time,' Rosie said, knowing the head of entertainment loved nothing more than to watch someone emotionally unravel.

  'When is it a good time for you, Rose?' he said smugly. 'Perhaps when you've finished with your staff problems, you can find some time to see me,' he continued, sarcasm dripping from his every word. He was still fuming over the Muffingate episode in the boardroom. 'Now you're no longer attending the programming meetings, you'll need to be briefed on what shows I want you focusing on, so when you're through here, perhaps we can all get some work done . . . at last?'

  You cold-hearted son of a . . .

  'Thanks so much for your patience, Simon,' Rosie spat back. 'As always it's been an absolute pleasure.'

  'No need to get stroppy,' he replied tartly.

  Just when she thought he was walking out the door, Nash turned around and, with his biggest thin-lipped grin, added, 'You sure you're not on your rags?'

  CHAPTER 9

  There must have been all of seven minutes between Nash's departure and the appearance of the red light on Rosie's phone that signalled Big Keith on his private line. That was a personal record for Nash, Rosie noted. She had to laugh, thinking of the entertainment head shuffling up the stairs all flushed and ready to burst with salacious gossip. It really was like the movie Mean Girls, only with grown men playing the teenagers.

  'Keith, what can I help you with?' Rosie answered, anticipating a barrage of abuse.

  'Fucking everything,' the Big Man sighed. 'What a fucker of a day . . .'

  'You're not wrong.'

  'Well, it's about to get worse. You'd better come up. I've just had Nash in here.'

  * * *

  'What the fuck is going on down there?' Big Keith roared as the doors to his inner domain heaved open.

  Rosie saw his profile first, a great lumpy mound in a leather chair groaning under the tilted bulk, his huge feet propped up on his desk. Pointing one of his numerous remote controls at the bank of eight televisions mounted along his wall, he then slammed it onto the floor like a recalcitrant brat. 'Fucking stupid fucking thing,' he growled at the tiny piece of plastic on the carpet, the huge calloused pads of his fingers now fumbling with the buttons on another set of dainty controls. Rosie thought the scene reminiscent of a particularly cruel cartoon published in the Financial Forecaster recently, which showed the TV Goliath grappling with a nerdy, pinheaded David labelled New Media.

  Rosie walked straight towards Keith, grabbed the remote from his hand and pressed the red button clearly marked on/off. Keith grumbled something she hoped was 'thanks' before attempting to sit upright. As he did, he lost his grip on an armrest and slid heavily back into the recliner, which dipped suddenly under the shift in weight. A thud like a dropped elevator followed as Keith was flung backwards, grabbing Rosie's arm as he fell and causing her to topple with him.

  A mangle of twisting arms, legs and torsos ensued, accompanied by a litany of expletives and groans. When Rosie managed to extricate herself from the melee, she stood up to see Keith on his back, screaming in pain and holding his arm like she had seen heart attack victims do so many times while drooling over George Clooney on ER. He was flushed a virulent red that deepened rapidly until his face was bruise-purple and looked ready to burst.

  Panicking, Rosie got on her knees and tried to roll him into the recovery position, the only thing she remembered from her Bronze Medallion lifesaving course, most of which she'd wagged in order to smoke ciggies behind the shopping centre near the pool. Yet another childhood regret. She heaved at Keith's huge flank with no luck. It was like trying to roll a mammoth. Frantic, she hitched up her skirt and straddled the prostrate giant, bracing her feet against the oak panel wall for leverage and putting her shoulder into it. What she was doing was far from dignified, as the Big Man could see right up her skirt, but she was too concerned with his imminent death to be prudish.

  'Jesus, woman, get the fuck off me!' Keith roared from under her, attempting to push her arse from his face.

  Rosie thought she might wet herself, first from fright and then from laughter. Could this day get any more ridiculous?

  Keith was still struggling to get up and away from Rosie's crotch, which she was just as keen to remove. The two pushed in opposite directions before falling into each other again. Rosie lost it, giggling uncontrollably. That set Keith off with a gaspy 'Raaark! Raaaaaark!'

  'Stop laughing, you might die!' Rosie pleaded through her own cramps.

  'Raaark, raark . . . you silly bloody sheila. Now get me the fuck up.'

  It took a couple of tries and much more combined mortification before they were upright once more, Keith all the while maintaining a grip on Rosie's arm. As she looked into the Big Man's eyes she saw fe
ar as well as humiliation.

  'Keith, it's fine,' she said softly. The redness was dissipating with every new breath he took. Nice and easy was the way to go. 'Keep still. I'm calling an ambulance.'

  'No you're fucking not!' Keith yelled, the blush of rage returning to his cheeks.

  'Keith, come on,' Rosie pleaded.

  'NO! I fucking mean it, Rose!' He was adamant.

  Frustrated, Rosie concentrated on doing anything to keep Keith calm. 'Just take a couple of deep, slow breaths.'

  Keith took in two big gasps then clumsily wrestled his hefty weight back into the uprighted chair. 'Fucking stupid thing,' he hissed, still rattled. 'And some fucking Nurse Nightingale you are. You could have fucking smothered me with that arse of yours. Now, where the fuck were we?' he said, clearly wishing the incident over.

  'Keith, we can talk later, why don't you take it—'

  'Don't fucking tell me what I should fucking take!' he blustered. 'You sound like my wife!'

  'Your wife is a fine woman, Keith, so I hardly take that as an insult,' she replied. Rosie had never been more sincere, revering as she did the supremely elegant Mrs Elaine Norman.

  'Yeah, well don't you go telling her about what just happened here, all right? That's all I fucking need.'

  'Okay, I won't tell her you were almost smothered by a redhead's crotch—'

  'Raaaark!'

  '—but can you take things a little easier? I'm telling you, any more performances like that and there'll be no more cigarettes from me! At least let me take you to a doctor. You don't look well. I may want to kill you most days but today isn't one of them.' Rosie was worried. Keith could have died in front of her, and she was sure the Big Man knew it, too. 'Come on, let me make the call?'

  'Ah, fuck off. You'll do what you're told,' Keith laughed. His face then softened as he leant and grabbed both Rosie's hands in his big bear-like mitts. 'Look, sweetie, this is just between us, okay? You know I like you and I trust you, but I'm starting to think I'm the only one around here who does.'

  Rosie felt sick. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Did no one like her? At all? Hadn't anyone seen how heinous her job was? As one of the only departments at the network that didn't actually generate money – just spent it – publicity was a quick ball to hit over the no-try blame line. But had they not realised what she'd managed to keep out of the press? The Big Man's drinking and health problems being a big fat case in point. Did they not see how hard she was working? That her job was hell?

  When a burp of angry bile hit the back of her throat, Rosie started scouring the office with her eyes for a bin, bag, anything – she was suddenly so ill it was as though all that acid festering in her knotted guts for months was demanding liberation – now! Jesus, woman, you can't hurl in the CEO's office! Get yourself together!!

  'Look, I don't mean that to be taken too hard,' Keith said, suddenly registering Rosie's ashen face. 'And I know it hasn't been easy and I know your old mates back in newspapers are giving you a hard time, but this business is about relationships. At the moment yours here aren't good. I know Johnno probably just has his prick in a flap because he hasn't nailed you, but Nash is on my back about you too now. And Alicia's in my ear constantly clucking on about drama. I just need you to try to get on with them. I know Nash is a touchy one, especially around sheilas. They don't call him the Ankle for nothing –'

  'The Ankle?'

  'Yeah, a few feet lower than a cunt – raaaaaark! – but you don't want him offside. He may be a mongrel of a human being but what that man doesn't know about TV . . .'

  Rosie bit her lip. She knew there was no use even trying to argue with Keith about Nash. The man had spent his entire career convincing his boss he understood what ordinary Australians wanted – not a bad effort considering he earned almost $2 million a year plus bonuses, thought the eastern suburbs of Sydney were Australia's heartland, and had married the first woman he ever managed to convince to have sex with him, probably realising he might never be so lucky again. He was hardly the every-bloke type.

  'As for Johnno,' Keith continued, 'I know he tends to think through his cock but he's under a lot of pressure at the moment so maybe try to be a bit nicer to him? Programming isn't an easy job.'

  Rosie agreed: Johnno sure was under pressure. Perceived by Keith as one of his anointed, a lad who 'actually knew about television', lately Johnno's sheen had lost some of its lustre, with the network nosediving in the ratings, advertising haemorrhaging, several program launches failing spectacularly, record numbers of viewers complaining and press ridicule a daily event. And now, with bean counters on board like Bettina Arthur, who only cared about the bottom line – and not female bottoms like the lads – Johnno was starting to smell like yesterday's prawns.

  Not that he showed any vulnerability. Nope, Johnno remained as cocky as ever, and no wonder. With his quick, laconic wit, big blue eyes that even Rosie had to admit seemed to twinkle when he laughed, golden blonde hair and a lean swimmer's body, he was a big hit with the women at the network. Rosie had lost count of how many had dropped their bundles – and their knickers – at the thought of being the one to hook the notorious bachelor. Problem was, he never stayed on the line long, always moving on to sport more female game he was none too discreet about.

  'Keith, I understand everything you're saying and once again I recommend you find someone who actually wants to do this job. You know my heart lies in news and—'

  'I won't have any of that,' Keith countered dismissively. 'I know it's hard here and you've got a shit of a job, don't think I don't. But I picked you to come and work here and I will choose when you go and it won't be before I fucking do, you hear? Fuck those two. We need more like you, I know that. Consider yourself a trailblazer. If you can survive, you'll open this place up to more women like you. I hired you 'cause I thought you were ballsy. Don't turn into a bloody sheila on me now.'

  Rosie took a second to breathe and consider her response. Looking around, she realised there was no point trying to illustrate the irony in Keith's last comment. She stared at the painting hanging behind Keith's desk, the one she called 'Who Killed Bambi?' It was your typical men's hunting lodge fare, large, dark and imposing, featuring a doe-eyed impala joining the food chain courtesy of a lion ravaging its throat. In the background several more lions were heading in for the kill. There was no better metaphor for how Rosie felt at that very moment – and no better reminder that the Big Man, too, had others sniffing around, waiting for a moment of vulnerability.

  'Now, what happened downstairs that got Nash's nuts in a twist?' Keith asked.

  'It was nothing to do with Nash, Keith. He happened to come by my office while one of my staff members was in distress, that's all. Nash saw her crying and it was frankly none of his business coming to you. She's fine now and all is good – well, as good as it can be.'

  'Make it good,' Keith asserted, 'and while you're at it, quit the diet jokes. You know the fat fuck has no sense of humour about such things.'

  'Er, okay, I guess I did take things a little far there,' Rosie admitted, chastened.

  Keith wasn't listening, though, focused once again on the jumble of remote controls around him. Rosie had lost him but decided she still needed to discuss a few home truths. This was always a risk with powerful men. They liked smart women around them but usually only when they were being reassured or agreed with. When you started telling them what they didn't want to hear, that's when they wanted you dumb. Ah, to hell with it. What's left to lose?

  'Keith, we have to talk about that Kennedys meeting this morning,' Rosie said bravely. 'I mean, really, you can't speak like that to colleagues.'

  'All right, Jesus, what's up you today? It's like you're—'